Forging Reality: Take Two
by ditzydizzydessy101
Summary: When four teenagers show up outside Dumbledore's office in 1977, the headmaster doesn't know what to think. Follow our favorite barmy old codger as he tries to unravel the mystery of a time traveling Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione!
1. Chapter 1

Gutten Tag[umm, yeah... no idea how to spell that—sorry to all the Germans and German-speaking people—help would be appreciated

_Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand_ here is "Take Two". Not much to it, really. I just wanted to keep Dumbledore in character during my story, Forging Reality (I recommend reading it :P ), so I rewrote it in his POV. And I decided to post.

If you still don't get it, you will once you start reading.

**Disclaimer[**blinks. Blinks again You sure there's a point to this? If you honestly think—let alone say out loud and accuse me with lawyers—that I'm JKRowling, then man oh man have you got to get to St. Mungo's (also not mine) really, _really_ fast. 

Albus Dumbledore sat comfortably at his desk, his eyes scanning a small piece of parchment. The writing was looping, flourishing, but it was its content that occupied his attention.

_Dear Esteemed Headmaster, _

_I'm distressed to inform you that my Inner Eye has foreseen _

_rather disturbing complications rising and affecting the war effort._

_Unfortunately, the normally clear visions I've received _

_were quite muddled, and I'm afraid I couldn't tell how it all ends up._

_All I can say is to stay alert for traitors and allies, because we well_

_may end up with both. _

_I'll keep you posted with any updates._

_Sincerely,_

_Teyndis_

He frowned lightly. He didn't like to put much store by divination, as too often it proved false, but Cicilia Teyndis hit the mark too often for him to merely dismiss this. He drummed his fingers on his desk. After a moment, he decided it best file the information away and keep an eye out, but the information was too vague to need further work. If something more came up, he'd deal with it then.

He slowly stood up and strode to his penseive. 

Once he'd deposited the information, he decided it really was time for some food. Perhaps some kidney pie and pudding would do the trick. If it didn't, he'd have his store of lemon drops on returning.

On his way down from his office, he distinctly heard frustrated voices from the other side—and they were guessing sweets.

Who one earth would be sent to his office this early in the term? And why wouldn't a teacher have given them the password? Unless it was someone trying to sneak in to prank his office? Would the Marauders really be foolish enough?

The doors slid open and he asked lightly, "Acid Pops, did you say? Personally I prefer treacle tarts."

The sight that met him made him want to laugh. He saw four young adults with utterly shocked expressions. Surely it wasn't that bizarre to see the headmaster coming down from the headmaster's office, was it? There was a pretty red headed girl, presumably the youngest, with soft eyes and a pale face; a red headed boy, rough and thin and tall; a bushy haired girl with sharp, clever eyes that showed the wheels already turning in her head; and a thin blackhaired boy with piercing but haunted green eyes. All four had at least one visible scar, the last boy more so than the others.

Albus pondered what they could want. They looked too old to be school-aged. The redheaded girl seemed likely to be fresh out of school, while the redheaded boy and the bushy-haired girl a little older, and the black-haired boy older still. If he'd been pressed to offer an explanation, he'd venture the guess that the oldest boy wanted a teaching job, and the others came along to wish him luck. Else, it was possible that they came seeking advice.

Albus was most intrigued, though, by the emotions that played across their features. Beyond the shock, there was disbelief and joy and sadness and relief. The blackhaired boy, though, held much more. Within a matter of seconds, his eyes spoke of recognition, shock, affection, excited expectation, disappointment, and finally steely determination. 

He said, "Professor Dumbledore? We—er—would like to transfer to Hogwarts."

Of all the things Albus expected, that wasn't it. They looked too old. He quickly reasoned with himself, however, remembering that they might only _look_ older than their age, or perhaps for one reason or another they hadn't been able to complete their schooling and wished to do so now. 

So he ignored the nagging thought that their eyes were too sad, too old to still be in school and said, "Then please do step into my office. I was on my way down to supper, but I daresay that can wait."

When the black-haired boy (he really did have to get names—this was getting repetitive) smiled his appreciation rather than verbalize it, Albus felt his old heart quicken, even as he turned to lead the way up the steps.

The gesture was too familiar, too relaxed. It was as if he and the boy were old friends, meeting once more for a friendly chat. Could anyone be that at ease with a perfect stranger? Had the smile been relieved, or at least held less confidence and independence, Albus would have assumed that he had only been expressing a (perhaps unconscious) gratitude for being able to pass along the burden to a capable adult. As it were, the boy was too in-control for it to mean anything of the sort. 

Could it mean that Albus had succeeded in his trying to put them at ease? Or might it have been that the boy had seen he was no threat, and genuinely appreciated his help?

Albus chided himself. He was psychoanalyzing things. He'd have to sit back and watch how things played out.

He sat at his desk and conjured comfortable, plushy chairs for the four teens. "Now then," he said when they were settled, "I think it would be best if I know your names."

He addressed all four, but as their eyes slid to the blackhaired boy, his did as well. The boy paused a moment, but Albus couldn't be sure what ran through his mind. Why would he want to hide their names? And why hadn't they already prepared their aliases?

The boy's debate appeared to be over. "This is Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley and his sister Ginny Weasley, and I'm Harry Potter." 

Mr. Harry Potter had gestured towards each of them in turn, but Dumbledore was distracted when he said he was a Potter. Leaning forward ever so slightly, he commented, "I wasn't aware that the Potters had any other living relatives."

The boy frowned, his eyes widening slightly. "Potters..." His voice was low, barely above a whisper. He seemed to be both testing out the name and describing a dear old friend at the same time. "I wasn't aware that any of my relatives were still living, but I've never seen a family tree so I wouldn't know." 

A small amount of pain sparked in his eyes, and Albus felt a wave of sorrow. There was so much pain, so much suffering in the world; it really was no wonder that the child seemed so old. Especially if he was implying what he thought he was. "Still living? You mean..." He tried to sound comforting, but Mr. Harry Potter explained while studying his hands.

"They died when I was a baby. The Weasley's as good as adopted me."

How could he comfort this child when the world had taken so much from him? Death and pain and loss... he forced down images of his siblings and their parents. He tried his best, "My dear boy, it is never easy to lose one you love, even harder to carry on without them, but still we live out our lives and find fullness in our friends."

He soon found, however, that his efforts were unneeded. Mr. Harry Potter raised his gaze and pierced him with a long, steady look that was much too mature and wise for his age, as was the statement that followed. "I learned eventually just how powerful the love we shared and the memories we formed are. I've mourned, or course, but I'm proud that they're my parents and I wouldn't trade their memory for anything."

All thought, all rationality left Albus's mind abruptly. All he could see was his sister's face, his brother's, his mother's, his father's. He was immersed in a world of pain and loneliness, and he was abondoned amongst the memory of his failings and weaknesses. He drew himself back slowly, firmly, and said, "That is quite remarkably, but alas, we must get on to business." He needed to move to safer grounds; he would mourn when he was alone again, but not before. "You say you'd like to transfer to Hogwarts, even though term started two weeks ago. Might I ask why?"

Mr. Potter started and seemed rather flustered as he stuttered, "Well, er... you see, we come from this, erm, small town and, er..."

Miss Hermione Granger interrupted him, clearly annoyed. "What Harry means to say is that we used to live and learn magic in a small town that was recently attacked by Death Eaters. Naturally, we couldn't bear to simply abandon our magical education, so when we–or I, rather–found out about Hogwarts, we decided it would be the best place for us. After all, it's very well protected and examination results are the highest of any school."

Apparently recovered, Mr. Potter added, "And besides, it'll be great to go somewhere with lots of other kids. It was kind of lonely, it being just the four of us learning together."

"What town?" Albus asked.

"Worchester," Miss Hermione Granger replied promptly. "It's mostly muggle– I think Ron and Ginny's parents were the only magical ones there."

Certain their tale would either prove or disprove (or at least hint at) where their loyalties lay, Albus asked, "And you say it was attacked. What happened? How did you escape?"

It was Mr. Potter who answered, looking out the window with unfocused eyes, "We were in the middle of a Charms lesson when there was this loud bang, like an explosion or something. We didn't think much of it at first, because Ron and Ginny's older brothers had stopped in for a visit and they really like making things explode. Then we heard screams, though, and saw fire out the window. We ran outside to find out what was going on. It was awful..."

Mr. Ron Weasley picked up the narrative, staring at his hands as though it was written on them, "There were men in hooded black cloaks and they were crazy–horrifyingly, disgustingly crazy. They were dangling a lot of muggles in the air and casting varying curses on them just to see how they'd react, you know, for sport. There were harmless things like jelly-legs and tarantallegra, but nine times out of ten they used darker curses, particularly the unforgiveables. My mum and dad were calling for us to go back in, but I just couldn't move. And then one of them, he... he..." He took a deep breath, "He heard them screaming for us and sent a curse. The whole house just..."

"Exploded," whispered Miss Ginny Weasley.

There was a long, lengthy pause, during which Albus pondered the truth in their story. It made sense, and was told well enough, that it could be true. Considering that they hadn't taken the time to come up with fake names ahead of time, it seemed to make the most sense. It was likely that their tale was true, in which case they might be scared into localizing the situation, reading too much into it and assuming it was a personal matter. Perhaps they feared that the Death Eaters wanted them dead and that giving out their real names would make it easier. It made sense. 

The glitch was Mr. Potter. 

He was young but mature and wise. He'd apparently seen a lot but was in complete control of his emotions. Why then did he allow so much raw pain and sorrow into his voice? He didn't want pity, that much was clear, so why did he try to act like a young, frightened teenager who had been caught unawares by the horrors of the world? If he had been, he would have developed an understanding of it, much like he had with is parents' death. So why act?

"So what do you say, professor? Can we transfer?" Mr. Potter asked.

Albus thought. Their loyalty had yet to be determined, but if they were hiding something, it was more likely to come out if they thought they'd succeeded. Besides, if he was truly honest with himself, which he prided himself on being, they had caught his interest and he wanted to know more. 

He nodded and smiled. "I don't see why not; we'd be delighted to have you with us. Unfortunately, though, we do have to go over some rather dull topics-one of the main downfalls of switching schools." He thought he saw Mr. Potter's mouth quirk at the corners. "The first topic being OWL results, your grades from previous years, your strengths and weaknesses, and so on."

"Erm," said young Miss Ginny Weasley, "we never took our OWLs, sir. Our parents had trouble clearing it with the ministry and eventually just gave up. And I don't think they used the same grading criteria as in the proper schools."

Albus froze. That casual reference of their recently deceased parents... The girl's voice didn't crack, she didn't get teary-eyed. Neither she nor any of the teenagers around her seemed to notice at all. Could this be the slip-up he was looking for? 

He filed it away and moved on. "That is unfortunate indeed." He paused. "Nevertheless, am I correct in presuming that you can tell me your best subjects."

"Of course, Defense Against the Dark Arts. Especially Harry, he's the best." Miss Ginny Weasley said, to which Mr. Potter half glared, half smiled, "Hermione, though, she's a right genius at just about everything." Miss Hermione Granger blushed a magnificent shade of red.

"Excellent," he said, thinking. He surveyed them over his half-moon spectacles. "As dull and dreary as test taking may be, however, I think I'll have to give you a small test, just to make sure you won't be too far behind the others."

Their responses caught him rather off guard. Instead of groaning, grimacing, etc., Mr. Potter had given a relieved sigh, Miss Ginny Weasley looked happily expectant, Miss Hermione Granger looked pleased but nervous as she started muttering facts under her breath, and Mr. Ron Weasley nudged her and asked, "Think I'll need to know that food's one of the five exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration?" Without knowing their complete story, Albus didn't know what to make of it. Was their story true? Had everything that had happened to them pushed them to the point of being happy to take a test? Had they lost all sense of normalcy, and that was what triggered such a reaction?

Or was it ultimately darker? Were they under orders of Voldemort and pleased to find that they were thus far succeeding in their mission?

He fished around in his desk until he found a few copies of old tests. As they began to work, he considered what he knew of them. 

Something to call them, most likely not their real names. 

They were good actors and/or in good control of their emotions.

They were unprepared for this meeting, but hesitated before giving any real, concrete answers; hence, they were likely lying.

They knew his password would be a sweet, but not which one.

All of them, but Mr. Potter in particular, were old and mature for their age. 

Could they be Death Eaters to infiltrate Hogwars? Times were dark, the world war-torn. Frowning, he considered briefly that, a decade ago, he would have welcomed them in with open arms. Now he was afraid to do so, for the safety of his students. What had the world come to? Why couldn't Hogwarts remain a safe haven without ever having to push people—kids—away?

"Professor Dumbledore?" 

"All finished Miss Granger?" He asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Then please step over here and we'll proceed with the practical portion."

She did superbly. Beyond superbly. Absolutely amazingly. Granted, she sometimes took a moment to recall the specific incantations, but considering the wide variety and utter uselessness of the spells themselves (turning a mouse into a snuff-box, for example) it was incredible that she remembered them at all, let alone with just a few seconds prep-time. 

In no time, Miss Granger had finished and Mr. Potter stood up to take his turn. Anticipation drummed in Albus's veins. It was Mr. Potter who had most caught his interest. He was their leader; it was clear from subtle, probably unconscious body language—his confidence, the way the others' eyes shifted towards him when faced with a question, the way they walked (Mr. Potter in front, leading into "battle," and the others in back, protecting from any "attack" from behind.) But what sort of leader was he? Was he nominated leader of a group of teenage Death Eaters? Or was he just taking responsibility for them and getting them out of harm's way by leading them to a safe haven?

Albus reasoned mildly that he'd likely have a lot of new material to fill his penseive with as soon as these kids left his office. 

He nodded at the boy and said, "Well then Mr. Potter, if you would just step over here and, let me think, procure a lemon drop for me." 

This task was his favorite to assign when wishing to figure someone out. They are always taken by surprise at first, then some roll their eyes while others shrug. Many have to ask what a lemon drop is. Some ponder the task for a while but end up saying they don't know any such spell. Some take the time to floo to Hogsmeade and try to find one. Eventually, they either wind up in Muggle London or come back empty handed. A few think to summon a house-elf, who quickly finds one. One even went so far as to create a potion that, after a few hours, settles into a small candy that tastes somewhat like lemons, but wasn't actually a lemon drop.

Mr. Potter, however, didn't fit any of these scenarios. Instead of looking bewildered, a reminiscent grin lit his eyes for a moment, only to be replaced with a mischievous spark. He turned towards Albus's desk and said, "_Accio Lemon Drop!_"

Albus's eyebrows shot up as the boy waited expectantly. This information already started to describe him. The teen was observant and quick-thinking, not easily taken by surprise by random orders, and familiar with Muggle sweets. _Alright, _he thought, _let's see how he handles this._

Mr. Potter glanced at Albus. "Anti-Accio Charm, I suppose?" he asked, smiling slightly, although he didn't seem to expect and answer. He walked across the room and stopped at the desk. Reaching out to grab a sweet from the bowl, he didn't seem shocked at all to find he couldn't touch the candies. He instead waved his wand and immediately the bowl flipped over. Candies scattered everywhere, but he picked one up and returned all the others _by hand_. 

That was an interesting fact to file away—it would have been easier to return them to the bowl with a wave of his wand like most any qualified witch or wizard would have done. But what did it mean? Albus didn't know but he resolved to find out.

"Here you are, sir."

"Fascinating thought process. I can't say anyone else has managed to do so quite as splendidly. Although I have had several call for a house elf.

"Now then, would you please make the candy tap dance across my desk?"

Mr. Potter's testing was quite different from Miss Granger's. He couldn't seem to remember the useless enchantments, so Albus began testing him with proper spells—ones used more commonly. The results peaked. He soon found, too, that his _Expelliarmus _and shield charm were extremely powerful, and Albus was struck with a sudden thought. Calling to mind Miss Ginny Weasley's claim of his brilliance at Defense Against the Dark Arts, he began testing Mr. Potter in specifically that subject. 

The results were phenomenal. Hexes and curses and countercurses... the teen was unbelievable. The headmaster was careful to test him in both lighter and darker (i.e., protection and pain-causing, what-it-takes-to-escape type) spells, but found the kid was quite good at both. He found this a bit disconcerting.

The two Weasleys went as well. Miss Weasley appeared to be quite familiar with showy, but still useful (especially in battle situations) enchantments, like making things explode; dramatic hexes, like the bat-bogey hex; and useful household spells, such as ones for cooking and cleaning. 

Mr. Weasley, while not immediately appearing to specialize in any particular type, had a certain quality that, in any real life situation, would have made up for it: detachment. It was difficult to see, but once one picked up the clues, it was glaringly obvious. He was involved as much as was necessary—his level of concentration was efficient, he paid attention to the tasks coming his way—but that was it. His mind was on a bigger problem, somewhere else, maybe weighing what he was saying and doing in order to prevent from slipping up. It was... It was... Albus couldn't put a name on just what the boy was doing, or how he was managing it. It struck him that the teen would make a superb military leader: he was efficient and a strategist, involved but detached...

_Peripheral vision._ The thought came to mind, and Albus found that it fit. Mr. Weasley was working, but, as if in mental peripheral vision, was also somewhere else, working on something else, seeing something else that still pertained to what he was doing.

When they had all finished, Albus sat behind his desk and read over the tests. Miss Weasley's answers were textbook, flat, reciting information heard once or twice or covered in an assignment. Miss Granger's recitations were longer, fuller, and held more empty information that the authors all to often seem to think are necessary. By the sounds of them, most were word for word from a textbook. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter's were the sort of a student who does just enough to get by and never any more. The answers were incomplete and ill-thought out, as if they was struggling to remember anything at all. 

There were, however, a few that they all answered correctly and fully, in ways that seemed to speak of personal experience—the Patronus Charm, dueling strategies, and (most alarming) the Unforgivables. 

Albus thought. And thought. And thought. Nearly everything pointed to discredit their story but lend credence to their supporting Voldemort. 

The names they'd given didn't seem to be their real names.

The story of their parent's death didn't seem to be true.

They seemed to fit together like a battle unit: a strategist, a genius, a leader, and a previously (if not still) over-confident novice who was getting her first taste of a mission.

They had seen too much pain, and it had aged them. 

Their knowledge didn't reflect what they would learn in a classroom, especially a homeschool classroom.

"Alas, I daresay that all four of you are most definitely capable," he said at last, his decision made. "Regardless, there is the more pressing matter of your loyalty."

The effect was instantaneous. Miss Weasley huffed, looking quite affronted. Miss Granger drew in a sharp breath and stole half a glance at Mr. Potter. Mr. Weasley opened his mouth angrily, as if to start telling him off. Mr. Potter, however, stayed quite still, his face like a stone and just as unreadable. He eyed Albus long and hard. "What are you saying, professor?" 

This reaction bewildered Albus. They were indignant. _Indignant! _Of all the emotions they could have felt, they were indignant, as if they thought he knew them, thought he knew he could trust them... As if it was insult beyond all insults for him to doubt their loyalty.

"Nothing overly alarming," He backtracked hastily, trying to appease them and maintain that I'm-just-an-old-man-watching-out-for-my-students'-welfare appearance, "And I'm certainly not accusing you. Nevertheless, it would be trusting to the point of foolishness to allow four perfect strangers into the school without at least questioning their story beforehand." He waited, but neither confession nor proclamation of innocence was forthcoming, and he continued. "For instance, you say that your parents," he nodded at Miss and Mr. Weasley, "and your adopted parents," he directed at Mr. Potter, "and your friends' parents and your teachers," this was aimed at Miss Granger, "were killed. And yet, you don't seem at all bothered when mentioning them. You don't get teary-eyed, or preoccupied, or even choke on a word. I'd expect some sort of reaction, however small it is or how emotionally strong you are. I do hope you'll forgive me for saying it, but it doesn't seem as though you're saddened by their death at all."

He had to stop there, as images of his parents started to suffocate him. He was lost in his dark past for a moment before racking sobs jolted him back to the task at hand.

Caught of guard, he stared at Miss Weasley as she cried, "Sir, they wouldn't have wanted to be remembered that way! They w-were always so–so full of life and love and–and happiness! Th-they wanted to be held in our hearts, but not–not mourned! When we're happy, we are fulfilling whatever happiness they may have missed, by living our life to the fullest we are declaring that as much as we miss them, we're still living for them!"

Mr. Potter moved to comfort her, and Albus was shocked to see understanding, and not pain or frustration, in his eyes. "She's right, sir," he said quietly. "They were incredible people, and the world is blessed to have had them. They lived their life, and are now continuing to live through us. It's been hard, obviously, but we can't mourn forever. They'd have been happy and proud that we are here now." 

There seemed to be a chord of personal pain and experience that had been struck, as if he wasn't just talking about his adoptive parents and their was a deep chasm of pain and subsequent healing on his mind, but by the time this piece of information hit Albus, he was far beyond it. He was thinking instead of his own family, and the truth in Mr. Potter's—Harry's—words. Two emotions dominated: acceptance and hope.

And then, quite suddenly, he found himself once more in his office, both couples hugging; Harry was the only one whose face wasn't streaked with tears. How could he have misjudged them so? Why hadn't he seen their sincerity? What had they done for him to do this to them?

"I apologize," he said ruefully, "That was way out of line. And I apologize for awakening difficult memories as well. I know how difficult such losses can be," he added kindly. "You should also know that your attitude is beyond admirable, and I would be proud to accept you into Hogwarts."

Harry relaxed significantly, exhaling deeply. Still hugging Miss Weasley, he said, "Thank you, sir."

"You are very welcome, Mr. Potter. I believe that the only business we have left to clear up is what classes you would like to take, and then we can all head to what I'm sure is a delicious supper and get you sorted."

"Excellent, sir." 

As their interview continued, Albus was struck with one thought that nearly made him drop the papers he held—When had he started to think of the boy by his first name?


	2. Chapter 2

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!**

**It's chapter two of Take Two!!**

**I honestly didn't expect to ever post this...**

**There have been varying reactions to this story—some people thought I should continue from Dumbledore's POV (well, -ish) and others thought I should jump around from one POV-ish to another POV-ish. **

**Personally, I like Dumbledore POV-ish the best, I think, and it's hard to write from POV-ishes that jump around from character to character. So, for now, at least, Take Two follows Dumbledore. However, in the future, I may or may not decide to put up ANOTHER version of the story, jumping around (I've already written the sorting and follow-up from Ron's POV-ish) so we'll see how that goes.**

**If you're particularly interested in a jumping POV-ish story, please let me know, because otherwise I probably won't bother...**

**I might start a new story instead—I've got an idea, but the plot is... ridiculously hard.**

**Nonetheless, FORGING REALITY is my MAIN story—any other updates are sporadic, as well as few and far between.**

**Hope you like it anyway!**

**Disclaimer: NOT MINE!! Maybe I should be more specific: Take Two is mine, Forging Reality is mine, the other version (whatever it's called and if and when it comes out) is mine, this plot is mine, my cookies are—you guessed it—mine. Harry Potter is not, nor is his fabulous world. You can have my homework, though, so long as I get it back in time—completed—and it's good enough to get A (preferably A+)!!**

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

Only through extreme, mind-bending strength of will did Professor Dumbledore refrain himself from skipping as he led the way down the corridors to the Great Hall.

It wasn't that he feared for his old bones sake—for they were quite up to the task, as proven the previous Thursday.

Nor was it public opinion that kept him bound—he had long since given up on hiding his eccentricities.

No, it was merely that if he skipped, he knew that he would sing, and if he sang, then he would focus on the words and emotion flowing through the music, rather than on the puzzle he was currently contemplating—which was the reason he wanted to skip in the first place.

He loved puzzles of any and every sort, and now that he had a new one to work on—the children trailing distractedly behind him—and the newest clue—whatever the Sorting Hat would reveal—tantalizingly close, he longed to allow the light and cheerful feeling to express itself in his walk.

He reigned himself in, however, and before too long they reached the Great Hall, where he left them.

"If you four would make yourselves comfortable," he said lightly, smiling, "I will go ahead and introduce you to the school. Do come in when I call your names, however, for it wouldn't do to leave you out here for too long."

When he'd received their assent, he turned sharply on his heal and allowed himself to grin madly before carefully schooling his face.

He opened the door and made his way to the front of the hall before addressing the crowd.

"Students and teachers," he called loudly, and a respectful silence quickly fell, "Staff and Ghosts and, of course, Poltergeist, may I have your attention, please."

He already had, of course, but he felt it polite to not exclude anyone. And, naturally, his persistence would help impress upon his audience the importance of listening to him, rather than worry over the newest plight in their social lives...

"This year, our beloved halls of Hogwarts will play host to four transfer seventh year students."

Immediately, hushed voices and whispers erupted, and he smiled lightly.

Oh, to be young and impatient...

"Indeed. It has been decades since precedent, but I feel it is time to open our halls once more. Our newest friends were previously homeschooled in the charming village of Worcester, but you shall have to ask them for specifics, if you so wish. And so please welcome: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, and Hermione Granger!"

Although Dumbledore prided himself on his subtlety, he knew he needn't have bothered. The students would ask the transfers about themselves regardless, and portraits do have ears...

He was getting ahead of himself, perhaps, but he had to take advantage of the few clues he had. And it wasn't like he pressed the portraits very often—only when he feared there was a breach in security. He didn't at the moment, but it was nonetheless comforting to know they would fill him in if they overheard anything suspicious.

The four transfer students entered the Great Hall just then, the same steely determination in each of their eyes. Curiously enough, only Miss Granger was seemed awed by the size and grandeur of the hall—the others ignored the impressive architecture and bewildering ceiling as if they had spent every day of their lives in here...

They followed Harry to the dais, and once they had—_finally_—reached it, Dumbledore, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice, called, "Harry Potter!"

He was cheating, and knew it. Through no stretch of the imagination could "Potter" come alphabetically before "Granger" or "Weasley," and he knew now that Miss Granger was the oldest of the four, Miss Weasley the youngest, so he didn't even have that excuse.

But the fact remained that Harry was the one who had most piqued his curiosity, and Dumbledore simply was not a patient man when faced with the newest pieces of a puzzle.

In any event, Harry now sat on the stool, with the patched and frayed Sorting Hat perched on his head, only the barest flickers of emotion flickering through his eyes.

There was a little bit of confusion, Dumbledore thought, but it might just as well have been apprehension—no, it was definitely confusion, and it was growing. Definitely not the normal reaction of a magic-raised child to have to a talking hat...

He shifted ever so slightly for a better view, careful not to turn his back to the students, and suddenly, Harry's face reddened. Inspecting his gaze more closely, Albus saw that he was looking out over the crowd of students as if only just realizing that they were there and he was the object of their attention.

Silly, really, as the students would likely find him as much an enigma as Dumbledore did... But then, Harry did not know that yet. And students rarely saw what they did not expect to see—again, silly.

The Hat remained silent, confirming Dumbledore's suspicion that Harry would be extremely difficult to sort.

To which house would he belong?

If their story was true, than Gryffindor seemed a likely candidate. After all, it must have taken immense courage for him to lead his friends as he did, assume all responsibility for them...

The flush quickly faded from Harry's cheeks, leaving only wide, shocked eyes, and puzzling Dumbledore even more.

The Hat was still silent.

If, of course, their story was false, then Slytherin might be a more likely candidate—arrogant as it might sound, it took no small amount of cunning to lie to Albus with a straight face. Or at least he thought it did—could his old age be affecting him more than he thought?

If at all possible, Harry seemed to be getting more and more surprised by the second—what could that Hat possibly be telling him?

Albus continued his previous thoughts from where he had left off. Ravenclaw might be home for the young man—there certainly had been intelligence in those dark green eyes, as the quest for a lemon drop had attested.

Or would Hufflepuff be preferred? Such loyalty to friends was hard to come by, especially in the midst of a war that had so many questioning loyalties. The doubt might be rare among school children, but their schooling had come from parents in a war-torn world, if their story was to be believed...

Of course, they might all be sorted into different houses—it seemed highly likely, even. Miss Granger was ideal Ravenclaw material, certainly, and Miss Weasley gave off a particular feeling that strongly reminded Albus of a Hufflepuff...

Should they each find themselves in different houses, would they allow the rivalries to separate them as well, or would they stand strong in their friendship? For how long?

Suddenly, Harry mumbled, "Thanks," in a disbelieving tone of voice, but before Dumbledore was given a chance to interpret it, the Sorting Hat called, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Looking dazed, the young man made his way to where the Gryffindors sat, his gaze sweeping up and down the table as if searching for a friendly face. He neednot have bothered—they all beamed and cheered enthusiastically.

More curious than ever, Dumbledore called Mr. Weasley, who was sorted into Gryffindor before the Hat fully touched his head; then Miss Weasley, who wore it for a short ten seconds; and finally Miss Granger, who was sorted within thirty seconds; and all four followed Harry to the house of the brave.

Encouraged, ever so slightly, by the knowledge that they belonged in his old house, and more frustrated than ever with the lack of proper information, Albus pasted on a cheery face and tried to give the appearance of enjoying his meal.

As soon as he could, however, he rushed to his office to store the evening in his penseive—using every ounce of presence of mind he possessed to keep from bursting into song and dance as he went.

Before retiring to bed, after hours of mind-numbing paperwork, he carefully asked the portraits in his office if they had heard anything strange from their fellow portraits.

Had his eyes been playing tricks on him, or had they truly averted their eyes as they assured him that no, they had not?

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The next morning simply could not have come fast enough, and Dumbledore was the first to reach the Great Hall for breakfast. As such, he was forced to wait two hours and twenty-seven and a half minutes before the objects of his curiosity finally arrived.

Was that a small white feather in Mr. Pettigrew's hair? Yes, it must have been, because Mr. Black had a couple on the back of his cloak, and there was one sticking out of Mr. Weasley's ear...

A pillow fight, then. Goody! That sounded like immeasurable fun. Perhaps he could convince Filius and Hagrid to join him in one later on the day? Hagrid was wonderfully strong and Filius such a small target that the game promised to be good... But no, they had gone easy on him when they had played twister a week past.

Perhaps the House Elves, then? He could always order them to try to win, which is always more fun for all involved...

He watched out of the corner of his eye as the Marauders and their newest dorm members dug into their food. It was a sight he saw a good number of times each day, from many of the teenagers around the Great Hall, and he wished dearly that a conversation would begin.

An interesting phenomenon happened within minutes, however, as the seventh year Gryffindor girls entered the hall discussing concerts and music, and sat down, curiously enough, beside Harry, Mr. Weasley, and the Marauders.

(Though it might sound as if he was purposefully eavesdropping—which he was—they were talking loudly enough that his chronically sensitive hearing could hear from their seats in the Great Hall. He respected their privacy, certainly, but it was up to them to keep it.)

It must have been Miss Granger or Miss Weasley who led them there, as Miss Evans would certainly not choose such a place to sit, and the other girls knew well enough, from past explosions, that such a seating arrangement was bad for their health and eardrums.

Nonetheless, the conversation continued, until Miss Evans turned to greet Harry and Mr. Weasley, saying, "Oh, hey guys! How's it going?" and caught sight of the objects of her all-too-often spite.

She clearly glared at the Marauders, then obviously and pointedly turned her attention to Harry and Mr. Weasley.

Harry, looking put-off, said, "Oh, erm, pretty good. You?"

Albus couldn't see her face, but he had to strain to hear her as she said softly, "Don't worry, I'm not mad at you. It's just... the Mauraders and I don't get along very well."

Ah, and the understatement of the year award goes to—

Poor Mr. Potter (James Potter, that is) scowled darkly, but didn't speak up, taking his vengence out on his pancakes instead.

"I see, but..." said Harry, looking awkward, "Why not?"

"Because they're always bullying people and pulling humiliating pranks on people, and their really arrogant—"

Her rant had changed over the years, but had always had the same essentials—namely, their arrogance and bullying—but that did not stop her from giving it with as much gusto as if it was the first time.

Dumbledore sighed. So much for a warm, friendly welcome to the transfers. He repeated this sentiment when he saw how uncomfortable her rant was making them.

"You know, he's got a lot of good qualities, too."

Dumbledore was unsure who was more surprised when Harry cut off her tirade—James, Lily, or Albus himself.

"Oh, right!" Lily said, once she had regained herself, with a cutting bit of vicious sarcasm. "I s'pose you're thinking of how he's a _brilliant_ Quidditch player! Or that he's got _such_ a sense of humor!"

Despite the fact that he knew there was more to James Potter than that, Dumbledore was in agreement with Miss Evans—what could one teenager know after one mere night?

"Actually, no." Harry responded, astounding them all, "It was more that he's fiercely loyal to his friends and those he cares about, he's strong-willed and brave, devoted and passionate."

There was silence.

Complete and utter silence. Not really, actually, but everyone who had been listening certainly fell silent.

Especially Miss Lily Evans. With a clatter, her fork fell, unheeded, to her plate.

Eventually, however, she found her voice. "That doesn't excuse his bullying people."

"No, it doesn't," Harry acknowledged, inclining his head slightly, "But it does mean that there's more to him than what you've said. Just give him a chance to prove it. That's all I ask."

Miss Evans, and most in present company, turned to look at Mr. Potter (James Potter, that is) who looked dazed.

—so maybe Mr. Potter _hadn't_ asked Harry to put a good word in for him—

Although he could not make out the exact words from where he was seated, it seemed the Mr. James Potter was stammering a question—probably why Harry was standing up for him or how he knew Mr. Potter so well.

Something that Dumbledore dearly wanted to know as well, but it was not to be.

Harry and his fellow transfers tensed up immediately, before Harry replied stiffly, "I'm not bad at reading people," and grabbed his book bag, leaving the Great Hall and many shocked eyes behind.

So many questions! The clearest being: What next?

Routinely, Dumbledore then listened in on other conversations—it was always good to know what was happening in the school.

Four different girls, from four different House tables, confessed, giggling madly, that Gilderoy Lockhart asked her the previous night to be his girlfriend. Professor Mandlebrook gushed at how her students loved her class. A group of fifth years hurried to complete an essay for their first class of the day...

Albus sighed.

At least _something_ was normal.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

He grimaced unhappily as soon as his back was turned from the grouchy man.

Why oh why did Barty Crouch take such an aggressive stance?

Albus was reading the signs, and it was obvious that it would not be long—a few years, tops—before the man was elected to Minister of Magic, and then where would the world be?

At the whim of a power-hungry, extremely prejudiced man, that's where. Perfectly kind, good, normal young men like Mr. Remus Lupin wouldn't live to see their next birthday. Anyone so much as suspected to have said something in favor of Tom Riddle's beliefs would be sentenced to Azkaban.

But none of that would help the war—it would only turn some of their own most able allies against them, and only increase the paranoia.

While it was easy enough to take a stance against the man's policies, in the hopes that some of Albus's supporters would follow suit, and educate people, especially the children in his school, of the foolishness of the decisions, Barty Crouch was simply to popular too oppose from the get-go without losing public support.

And when he and the rest of the Order were outnumbered by Death Eaters twenty to one, public support was something he needed.

He'd have to talk to Instructor Radon and Professor Mandlebrook to see what their stances on werewolves and vampires are, before requesting them to cover such topics. It wouldn't do to have them convince the children even _more _that they were monsters to be destroyed... Perhaps an in-school assembly would do the trick, should all else fail.

By now, he had reached the Entrance Hall of the Ministry of Magic, where he turned sharply and gratefully apparated to Hogsmeade—he never did like the stifling atmosphere that power created. Smiling politely at those who greeted him, he strolled the rest of the way to the castle, lost in his thoughts.

He found Minerva waiting outside his office, looking severely agitated.

"What is it, m'dear?" He asked kindly, immediately running over worse-case scenarios and their appropriate regulated responses in his mind.

_If the students are under attack by outside presence, immediately lock down and prepare evacuation to Hog's Head. _

_If threatened by inside force, isolate and eradicate the threat in whatever way possible—protect the students by lock down, preferably in the Great Hall. _

_If someone is severely injured beyond our Mediwizard's ability, there are always Healers on call at St. Mungo's, and a simple portkey should suffice to bring them here..._

"That new student—Harry Potter," she began, and Dumbledore abruptly broke off the train of his thoughts to appraise her demeanor carefully. He gathered nothing more than that she was extremely distressed.

"Yes?"

She wrung her hands.

"He has... knowledge, that doesn't make sense for him to have! It's bizarre! Unreal—"

The threat, if there was one, was not imminent, then.

"Minerva, my dear, come on up to my office, have a cup of tea, and please, calm down. You're not making sense as it is."

She glared at him for the interruption, but obediently, if reluctantly, followed him up to his office. Ignoring the tea he'd placed before her, as he had suspected she would, she started again, this time—thankfully—coherently, "Today's lecture was on the use of Transfiguration in a duel. I was asking around for suggestions, and when I called on Mr. Potter, the transfer I mean, he listed multiple things."

Albus nodded patiently for her to continue, failing to see the cause of the agitation, and took a long sip of his tea.

"Among them," her voice cracked, "was to block the Killing Curse."

Dumbledore choked on his tea, only just managing to keep from spewing the delightful amber liquid all over his deputy headmistress and close friend.

It was a long while before he found his voice. "That is most impressive. Have you any clue from where he came by this knowledge? They had claimed they were home schooled, and this isn't widely known, even in schools."

"No, Albus, he didn't say. But what does it mean?"

"I wish I knew, Minerva. I wish I knew."

She politely excused herself, going to her office to grade papers, and Dumbledore watched her go. When she had left, he murmured to himself, "I wish I knew, and I _will _find out."

He pulled out his penseive from the cabinet and added the encounter, then dove within its mysterious, silvery depths to relive everything he could think of that related to his four newest enigmas. While watching the interview scene, he was struck by something that he hadn't caught sight of the first time around—something with momentous importance.

When he had first found them outside his office, and had turned to lead the way up the steps, he had missed a very important exchange. Miss Granger had raised her eyebrows in an almost threatening way at Harry, as if to warn that he had better know what he was doing, and he had smiled weakly back.

Meaning...

"Definitely not Death Eaters, then," Dumbledore mumbled aloud to himself, "because they would have known their orders, if that had been the case..."

Their story wasn't true, either, he realized with a start, because Miss Granger had claimed that they couldn't bear to drop their education, but here she was not even knowing what they were doing at Hogwarts in the first place.

But what _was _true?

As the memory progressed, he watched as they took their tests and he graded them, then winced in shame as his memory self accused them of not caring about the Weasleys' deaths.

His breath caught, however, as he noticed something else: as he saw himself slowly turning to face the window, a tear forming in his eye, the real Albus zeroed in on Harry's expression. Harry was watching memory Dumbledore as well—and understanding. As if he knew what demons plagued him. As if he could sympathize.

Looking right through Albus as if he was as transparent as water.

Only one person had ever known him so well, as Albus had purposefully kept himself from getting too close to anyone ever since.

And that one person was locked up in Nurmengard.

Gellert Grindlewald.

Albus glanced at his watch—still an hour before the staff meeting—and rose slowly to his feet.

Perhaps the newspaper clippings at the library had some information on an attack on Worcester.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

_**Thanks to all of my reviewers—this is for you!**_

_**If anyone's wondering, this starts off almost entirely focused on Harry and co., because Dumbledore is almost entirely focused on them. As the plot progresses, however, Dumbledore's "world" and life in general will take precedence, and this will follow how Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione affect him and everyone around him and so on.**_

_**Sooooooooooooo... Did'ja like it?**_

_**REVIEW!!**_

_**Please?**_


	3. Chapter 3

**AND HERE'S CHAPTER 3!!!**

**First, I want to thank all my reviewers! You guys ROCK! Magical Magician: **-beams- thank you thank you thank you! Trust me, I'm just as thrilled that I'm continuing this! XD **E.: **Thanks! thing is, Dumby thinks that he's so smart too... The manipulating stuff is really fun, too--and I completely agree about Manipulative!Evil!Dumbledore being unfortunate and annoying to read at times-he's easily one of my favorite characters. You also mentioned DD not buying the excuse of a duplicate wand, but remember, that was DD's suggestion, not Harry and co.'s... -evil grin- **hypercell: **that's the plan!** huffle-bibin: **thanks! wow, my last update must have been ages ago... how i hated that essay... **Nosi: **ooh, thanks! yeah, I've got lots of material to cover, and personally, I can't wait to write his thoughts on the prank **Element's Sole Protector: **yes, DD is very underpreciated-one of my fav characters, too. And I completely agree about school being stupid! **bookcrzygirl: **trust me, I'm most excited for that scene too! **Lady Shadow of Time: **thanks! yep, grandfatherly attitude and all, he's the best! **Hisshou: **wait till you see what jumps he makes in THIS chapter... **Lolgirl: **XD I'm glad! **Canadian Wolf: **I'm trying... "soon" is a bit of a stretch, though **Corenth: **thank you! actually, that part was a typo... I'll fix it soon **Immortal Sailor Cosmos: **thanks! and... I wish. I wish I was that motivated... **lilyre: **thanks! **Ali-Chan et Vani-Chan: **thanks!

It was a testament to the utter ferocity of the torrent of ideas whirling about in Dumbledore's mind that he failed to notice when his hands shook so badly that the newspapers rattled under his grip.

He was so far gone, however—so caught up in the intensity of his bafflement—that the absurdity did not occur to him.

There was an infinite instant, just the barest of eternal moments, during which Albus continued to stare, unseeing, at the newspapers, even as the burning curiosity seized him.

Then he rose, with a trance-like unbidden elegance, to his feet and let the papers drift lazily to the cold stone floor.

Without a word—without even a proper thought—he summoned his beloved Fawkes to him and _willed_ him to understand.

Fawkes, it cannot be disputed, was an exceptionally clever bird, and with one glance at Albus's troubled features, he offered his tail. As Dumbledore grasped his regal golden plumage, they disappeared in a flash of fire.

There was some resistance from the wards—there always was—but in as much a frenzy as Albus was, they were naught more than a bug hitting a broomstick.

He felt solid ground beneath his boots just the barest of seconds before the dancing flames that surrounded him disappeared, and the snow beneath his feet made a soft crunching noise as his weight fell fully upon it.

Though the flames had gone, their brightness imparted a glare on his eyes, and it was a moment before he could see again.

He was on a mountain peak, his favorite place to think, and could see for hundreds of miles in every direction. Snow-covered slopes—some steep, some gradual—toppled downward into an icy valley, and another, smaller mountain rose on the opposite side. Evergreens dotted the slanted landscape below him, rocky cliffs stood out among the snow, and ice crystals glittered in the sun.

Immediately, an icy breeze swept up the incline, rattling his bones and clearing his mind.

A few deep breaths later and he could begin to make sense of his newest clues.

The newspapers did, in fact, tell the tale of a tragic attack on the primarily muggle village of Worcester—however, the mentioned attack took place a full two and a half years previously.

If the transfers' story was at all true, then why oh why would they have waited thirty months before finding something to do with themselves? Had they taken up residence elsewhere—with, perhaps, other people of unknown loyalties?

Albus was convinced that they were not Death Eaters at Hogwarts under Lord Voldemort's orders—that did not mean, however, that they were entirely outside the Dark Lord's forces or manipulation. For all he knew, Tom Riddle might be pulling the strings on these four unknowing victims.

Or, under the assumption that their story was entirely false, how had they known the name of a muggle town that had been attacked years passed? And why had they portrayed it as a recent attack? Would it not have made more sense to spend three minutes searching through the _Daily Prophet_, as muggle attacks now occurred almost daily, and present any one of those towns as their former residency?

Unless...

There were two fathomable reasons, if one disregarded the normal laws of physics, psychology, and magic, for such a phenomenon.

One, they had been hidden away for the past two or so years, and as such had no knowledge of what had transpired since. Simple in theory, complicated in effect—What was the motive? Where were the perpetrators? Why did the children keep it a secret? What loyalty did they have for their kidnappers? Why were they freed now?—this, although possible, held little legitimacy, and Dumbledore filed it away in the back of his mind.

And two, time travel. They would have had to somehow encounter or create a rip in the time field that hurtled them two and half years into the future. In all honesty, their story might have been entirely true—with the exception that they had only ventured to Hogwarts in search of advice, and Harry had taken the initiative and enrolled them for classes.

The theory was simple, precise, and entirely plausible—except that time travel was entirely impossible. After nearly a century of studying the mechanics of time travel, he knew quite certainly that no magic, however dark, could manipulate time. Turn it backwards, certainly, but then it always plays out as it did originally, with no deference from the normal plane of time. It was as if a string had doubled back on itself before continuing onward—the stretch of time played, went backwards, and then played again before continuing as if nothing had happened, because nothing _had _happened.

So how could you do that going forward? There was no anchor to pull on, no basis for summoning... There was no place for the string to go.

No, what they would have had to have done is sever their own personal strands of time completely while leaving the rest of the world as is, take out a chunk of it, and patch it again—and expect it to run as smoothly as it had, with no perceivable tears.

Else, they would have created a loop, one that they could skip over and onward, while everyone else was detained on the round-a-bout... But then why had the rest of the world not had a repeat moment where the lines had crossed?

Even as he considered both the "possible" conclusions that he had drawn, another idea—one that filled him with a terrifying despair and, at the same time, a horrid certainty as pieces of the puzzle fell into place—took hold of his mind like a poison, but the more he thought of it, the more he knew it was true.

It was wild, bizarre, insane... and yet, he was certain that there was some proverb he had heard once or twice about how, when you rule out all the impossibilities, then whatever is left, however outlandish, must be the truth.

Harry knew him well—better than anyone since Gellert Grindlewald—and although Albus couldn't claim to know Harry in return, there was a certain companionship, an equality of sorts, between them that Dumbledore's former friendships had seemed to lack—again, since Gellert.

There was understanding where no words were said, their was realization when nothing was implied. What seventeen-year-old could comprehend the emotions of the old? Words, almost certainly; memories, quite possibly. But emotions and bonds, triumphs and bitter defeats, transcended to a level above and beyond what Harry should have been able to understand when given no clues more than a tear-filled glance.

It wasn't impossible, certainly, that Harry was an Empath or Seer, and gained his comprehension that way, but those with these gifts would typically try to avoid human contact, as it overloads their systems with far too many emotions, and Harry just didn't fit that mold. Not to mention such gifts rarely set in until one has passed one hundred years of age.

But...

If Harry already wasn't who he said he was...

Then why did he have to be a teenager at all??

It had been decades since Albus had seen his old friend Grindlewald, but his memories were as sharp as ever, and unrealistically coincidental parallels could be drawn between Gellert Grindlewald and Harry Potter.

Both were adept leaders.

Both had knowledge of the dark arts that was neither widely known nor practiced.

Both could act and manipulate their emotions to come across in whatever way they pleased.

Like Gellert, Harry had far to many scars to be natural—could it be that, like Gellert, they were from various rituals, the majority of them dark and dangerous?

It was a preposterous, nonsensical idea, ludicrous to even consider.

And yet...

And yet Harry had not been surprised by his plea for a lemon drop—had, in fact, adopted both a reminiscent and a mischievous glint in his eyes.

And yet Harry practically had a battle unit ranged around him—the strategist, the genius, the novice—of which he was the leader.

And yet he seemed to be much older than he claimed.

And yet he had seemed indignant when Dumbledore had doubted his loyalty, just as Gellert had so many years ago when Dumbledore had doubted the morality of his intentions.

Albus replayed, in his mind's eye, the moment when he had first seen Harry and his friends—when he had descended from his office and found them guessing sweets outside the gargoyle.

Gellert would have known he'd chose a sweet for a password—when initially making their plans a century ago, he himself had suggested such a thing to be their codeword, as a delicious sort of irony.

Now, of course, the irony was of another thing altogether.

Then, when the four had first glimpsed him, and he them, a myriad of emotions had rushed across their faces. Harry, especially, Albus recalled. There had been recognition and shock, affection and excited expectation, icy disappointment and steely determination...

Not a typical reaction of strangers... but a perfectly plausible one if Harry had known Dumbledore years before.

How often, in his presence, had Harry acted in a way befitting old friends?

Far too often for coincidence, Dumbledore was certain.

The doubt was gone—the reality had set in.

Gellert Grindlewald was at Hogwarts, posing as a seventeen-year-old boy.

Albus Dumbledore summoned Fawkes to him once more—this time off to Nurmengard, to see who or what, precisely, had taken the place of his former friend and former foe.

_**AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa**_

_**AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa**_

_**AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa**_

The wind whipped around him, and he clutched his favorite star-embelished hat to his head to keep it from flying off.

He nodded once to the guards, flashing the broach with the insignia of the Wizingamot their way, and watched impassively as the magnificent, iron-wrought gates creaked open.

The horrid images and memories inspired by the dank prison were the cause of far more shivers down his spine than the chill.

The corridor was dark and damp—some sort of fungus was growing on the walls.

Torches traced the corridor for as far as he could see into the darkness, but remained empty until he neared. Each flared to life when he was within twenty feet of it, and then flickered out when he had passed.

It made sense, of course—it was far easier for the guards to see where he was, and next to impossible for anyone to traverse the length of the corridor without being seen.

He passed a plethora of heavy cell doors, until he stopped at the last—the largest—the worst. It was this room whose stone walls had been stained red with the blood of its hundreds of victims, this room that had once held knives and whips and thumbscrews, this room that Gellert had both feared and adored.

Now, it was his eternal cage, within the very unbreachable prison that he had designed.

Oh, Grindlewald had loved irony!

There was the sound of hurried breathing beside Albus—he spun to face the unnamed entity.

But it was only the guard, who had, he assumed, followed him in to keep an eye out.

Dumbledore forced his heart to slow its hurried beat, and tapped the door with his wand—ignoring the guard's sudden tensing at the movement.

The heavy door faded into transparency, though just as solid as it had been before, and, despite his dread at what he might see, Albus peered inside.

His old friend—his old foe—curled into a ball on the clammy stone floor, his eyes unseeing and his expression slack.

Dumbledore's heart pounded viciously once more and he thought, distantly, that it had chosen a poor time to go into cardiac arrest. But it slowed, and he could summon just enough breath to ask of the guard, "He is alive, is he not?"

"Yes, sir," answered the guard promptly, "We ran diagnostics this morning. It's just the depression you're seeing now. He's been like this for, I don't know, five years or so."

Five years.

It fit, to a point. Grindlewald must have escaped from the prison and put a dummy in his place. He would have been weak, no doubt, and helpless... Three years, give or take, for him to recover his strength, find a wand, set up headquarters, come up with a plan, create a disguise... Two years, thereafter, to choose his new followers, few as they might be, persuade them to his cause, train them, put them in place... Where they old, trusted followers, re-inspired by his ideas and thrilled to find their old master once again? Or were they entirely new? Fresh minds, fresh hearts, fresh passion...

But what motive? To what end? Was he adopting his original plans once again—was his heart still set on dominating England and reestablishing an hierarchy of blood purity? Did he expect to find ample breeding ground for his ideals in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? Or was he solely drawn to the irony of carrying out his plans in his—Albus's—domain?

"Five years is a long time," Dumbledore pointed out, glancing up at the guard. The man had dull brown eyes, scraggly hair, and a beard a few days in the making—idly, Albus imagined a family for him back home: a wife of a few years (the laid-back type who nevertheless pined for excitement), no children, cramped house, plenty of drinking buddies, dreams of hitting it big or winning the lottery. It was a game Dumbledore often played with himself, trying to create an environment to suit and mold the people around him—he found that, quite often, he was right, though his assumptions came more often from mannerisms than appearances.

"Not really," the man said, maddeningly blasé, "His last depression was almost fifteen years, I hear. He's spent more time in these bouts of mindless, droning depression than out."

Which just begged the question: Was this the first time Gellert had escaped from his confines?

Feeling rather nauseous, Albus nodded briefly and tapped the door with his wand once more. The solid oak door regained its original appearance and he turned sharply on his heel.

The guard cast a few precautionary wards on the door, which was no doubt standard procedure, but he didn't bother to wait. There was no point in more fully examining the Grindlewald replacement—Albus knew enough of his old friend that there would be no evidence.

Gellert had learned that lesson long before.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello all!**

**Special thanks to all of my reviewers!: **bookcrzygirl, Cows are my friends (DD never actually confronted Harry about being Grindlewald, so Harry was still blissfully in the dark), Nosi (yes, DD isn't going to confront Harry about it anytime soon), VeshtaNarada, Mystical Magician (poor Harry is right--DD has no idea how wrong he is...), hypercell, lilyre, E. (however evil you looked thinking about the Harry/ Gellert comparison is nothing compared to how I looked when I thought of it in the first place), Immortal Sailor Cosmos, crystal, Ellesra (thank you thank you thank you!), Element's Sole Protector (your review made me giggle--thanks for brightening my day!), Aimael (hey look--I updated! Yay!), cyiusblack, Dumbledore's Emerald Pheonix, Ellyanah (-blush-) **You guys ROCK!!!**

**I hope you guys all like this chapter... XD**

About three things Albus Dumbledore was absolutely certain.

One: Gellert Grindlewald—former friend, former foe, ruthless dark lord, brilliant man—was at Hogwarts, and was indubitably manipulating and persuading the students to his ends.

Two: Albus was utterly and completely powerless to stop him.

And Three: Albus really, really needed a lemon drop.

But back to the Grindlewald thing.

It was a distasteful, terrifying thought—the sort of thing nightmares are made of—to be unable to intervene as Gellert brought to life his dark schemes, and it had taken Dumbledore what felt like an eternity to finally wrestle himself into accepting, however grudgingly, that conclusion.

But the evidence was overwhelming.

If there was one thing that Grindlewald had refused to do, it was to underestimate anyone—he considered it no greater insult than for his enemies to come even marginally close to winning. As such, servants, prisoners, and followers alike were vigorously interrogated at random, to weed out any spies. Similar to the well-known Azkaban, Nurmenguard had never (at least, never during Gellert's reign) been host to a break out; it was too well protected. Any foe or battle was anticipated and thoroughly judged before Grindlewald named the troops he would send to meet them—and then he always multiply his troops' numbers. The only fight that Gellert had ever, since his teen years, entered without double his opponents' power had been when Albus himself had faced him, and even then Grindlewald had more than a few aces up his sleeve—the Elder Wand, his entire army ranged around him, and mind games to play about dear Ariana's death.

No, Gellert Grindlewald never took chances—and he certainly wasn't now.

Albus had no idea of the numbers backing Gellert—just how many followers had he gathered by now? Grindlewald may have been prideful, but he certainly would not have ventured into Albus's "territory," as it were, without being certain that his back was covered.

Moreover, even when weak, wand-less, follower-less, isolated from the world, kept under complex locking charms, watched day and night by guards, and mentally unbalanced by his tortuous memories of that blood-stained room, Gellert Grindlewald had masterminded his escape—possibly more than once—from what was supposedly one of the safest prisons on earth.

Gellert's prowess at magic, which had already rivaled Albus's own, had undoubtedly grown immeasurably.

...Which left him with the distasteful option of waiting for the opportune moment to strike and take down Gellert Grindlewald.

**_AaAaAaAaAaAa_**

Albus took the long way back to the castle, muddling through his thoughts as he mechanically apparated into Hogsmeade and slowly ambled his way through the various shops, not even noticing the sights and sounds and smells that jumbled together all around him.

He stopped and chatted politely with all who called his name—though there were few among their numbers, as most people were holed up safe and sound in their homes and offices, venturing out into the dangerous outside world only when it was absolutely necessary.

His spirits, already so heavy, sank at the sentiment.

This war had torn apart far too many lives, robbed far too many children of their precious childhood and innocence, stolen far too many souls long before their time....

How much worse would it become now that there was another dark lord on the loose, and he was gaining support and followers?

How many more lives? How many more deaths? How many more betrayers?

There was, however, one small ray of hope, dark as the prospects surrounding it might be. If Gellert Grindlewald was indeed planning on resuming his earlier plans, then perhaps the deaths and bloodshed and betrayers would likely handicap the the enemies' forces rather than the Light's own, for they would be split down the middle between both Tom's and Gellert's campaigns, and Albus could not fathom either dark lord willing to share—Tom because he was too selfish, Gellert because he already had, and it had been Albus, his partner, who had used his weaknesses to bring about his defeat.

But although Albus would cross his fingers and hope for the best, he wouldn't hold his breath for a quick and easy end to the war.

He had reached by now the entrance to Hogwarts's grounds, but he passed them by with hardly a second thought. The castle's magic had, of course, recognized his signature and put up very little fuss as he crossed through them.

Albus was nearing his office now, and considered, with a great sense of relief, that a steaming mug of hot cocoa would soothe him considerably, but it was not to be.

He wearily murmured the password and ascended the elegant golden spiral staircase, and upon opening the door to his office, he saw a crowd of professors sitting impatiently, and was suddenly reminded of a duty he hand forgotten.

"Oh, dear me," he lamented, by way of making his presence known to the room, "Was the staff meeting _today?" _

Faces whirled around, some surprised, many relieved, others accusing, and Minerva McGonogall rose primly to her feet and nodded, lips tight.

"Indeed, Albus. Might I inquire into your absence?"

Dumbledore, not at all put off by her stern appearance, nodded sagely. "Certainly, you might, though to spare you the trouble I shall volunteer the information. I confess I was merely wrapped up so completely in my thoughts that I quite forgot the date and time. Has it been long since we were proposed to start?"

"Two hours," was the sharp reply, and Dumbledore worked to keep an embarrassed flush off his cheeks.

"My sincerest apologies, to all of you. What say you we keep this short today, hmm? Is that agreeable?"

A few relieved sighs around the room was enough answer to his question—though he had never truly expected any opposition—and they began.

There were no complaints to speak of, classes were running smoothly, and when Albus asked how the four transfers were adjusting to the schoolwork, their teachers assured him that they were not significantly, if at all, behind the other students, and were even ahead in some specified areas of study.

Professor Jenn Mandlebrook commented blithely that she was looking forward to making the four transfers feel at home and to imparting her knowledge with them, and they adjourned.

And _then_ Dumbledore got his cup of hot cocoa, but it wasn't nearly as sweet and rich and soothing as it normally was. He could have sworn it was lukewarm, too, but when he checked his timepiece he realized that he had been staring, unseeing, at his full, untouched mug for over an hour.

Sighing, he vanished it with a wave of his wand and summoned a novel to read at random, pulling up the old novel _Jinx by Twilight, _it's pages yellowed with age and crinkled many a time from frequent reading_. _Tiredly, he reclined comfortably in a plush armchair with the book, but even as the clock struck two in the morning and his eyes reached the bottom of the final page, he had yet to absorb a single word.

He banished it to a shelf and resigned himself to a sleepless night.

**AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa**

The word was all over the school before dinner commenced, which was when Professor Jenn Mandlebrook approached Albus and informed him of her woes.

"I was teaching them about dueling," she exclaimed, her voice taut with the effort of holding back tears, but she brushed off Albus's efforts to soothe her. "Immeasurably dangerous, of course, but utterly fascinating, too. But you know how students are, always getting distracted even with the most interesting lessons, so I thought I'd liven it up some, tell some funny stories about dueling to keep them entertained. The only other option was letting them duel each other, and I certainly couldn't do _that!"_

She laughed scornfully, humorlessly, looking so downtrodden that Albus couldn't bring himself to ask her _why_ the students dueling would be such a bad thing... And in any case, he already knew her well enough to guess the answer.

As Jenn Mandlebrook took a dainty sip of her pumpkin juice, Dumbledore mused over the beginning of her tale. The gossip around the students was that the lesson had been worthless, they hadn't learned anything at all, and that all of her classes were equally pointless—but then, while the word of a single teenager is largely legitimate, the word of a mass of any people, particularly about something even mildly unpleasant, is typically extravagantly exaggerated.

"So then," Jenn Mandlebrook continued, having sipped her fill of the magnificently tasty juice, "In the middle of my lecture, one of the new students, Hermione Granger, stood up and challenged me outright—said would I please get to the point, because so far the class was an insult to their intelligence and certainly wouldn't help them survive the war!"

Naturally, after such a comment, Albus's sensory receptors largely shut off—his delightful kidney and steak pie wasn't nearly as mouth-watering, the room around him blurred into non-existence, and his hearing distorted strangely in his ears.

He heard, as if from far away, disconnected phrases from Jenn Mandlebrook ("mocked me to my face", "horridly vivid and exaggerated lies" and "terrified the other students"), but his mind could not possibly spare the excess thought to fathom their meaning.

Instead he pondered these newest developments, and the possibilities they entailed—the key factor seemed to be whether or not Grindlewald was directly or indirectly behind the event.

Scenario Z: Gellert Grindlewald's planning was complete, and his plots were being set in motion—the first step of which appeared to be along the lines of mass hysteria among students....

Maybe he wished to make the war seem more real and dangerous, and then would introduce the concept of betrayal, by having one of his friends pretend to betray him. It would lead to doubt and suspicion, and loyalty ties between students would in turn decay to next to nonexistent: ideal for recruiting grounds.

Scenario Y: Miss Granger, as Gellert's perhaps unwilling follower, was sending out a subtle plea for help—hoping that someone would catch on to the fact that they were in far over their heads in a war they didn't understand and weren't ready for.

Or possibly Scenario X: Miss Granger passionately believed in whatever lies Grindlewald was feeding them—perchance even the same tall tales of glory and honor that Dumbledore himself had absorbed so eagerly in his teenage years—and thought that by making the war more realistic and imminent to her fellow classmates, she could coerce them into choosing a side, preferably her own.

Albus blinked twice, rapidly, and the room swam into focus, Jenn Mandlebrook looking to him expectantly.

"Very well," he said pensively, in answer to what he assumed she wanted, "I shall speak to our guests and deal with them accordingly. Will that be satisfactory?"

Jenn Mandlebrook's mouth dropped to form a small 'o'. "Oh, no, headmaster," she said, breathlessly, "That won't be necessary. I've already asked Minerva to address the issue, as she is their head of house, and she seemed happy enough to oblige. I just thought you might want to know—and, if nothing else, it is an entertaining tale to tell over dinner, isn't it?"

So she only wanted an attentive audience...

Somehow, Albus Dumbledore was not the least bit surprised, he mused to himself as he nodded politely and returned to his kidney and steak pie.

**_AaAaAaAaAaAaAa_**

Yet another room had spread like wildfire by the next morning, and though Albus was not sure how much to believe of the tales of bloodcurdling screams and faces so pale it was assumed they were corpses or ghosts, he wasn't much concerned either way.

Oh, it was horrible to hear, certainly, that Gellert and his followers were haunted by dreadful pasts... But Dumbledore wasn't surprised.

He was, after all, pondering the state of mind of a ruthless dark lord....

**Once again, thanks a million to all of my reviewers! Next chapter: THE prank! (And yes, I am more excited to write that than you could possibly know)  
**

**Until next time,**

**I love you all**


	5. Chapter 5

**It's finally here! Sure took me long enough...  
**

**Thanks to all my reviewers!**

**Happy Halloween to everyone (a little late, but I tried) and good luck to any NaNoWriMos out there!**

**Disclaimer: JKRowling owns it all; I'm just playing with the characters.**

**Happy Halloween!**

The days went by with little of importance happening—meetings were held, students were observed, and the Order was advised—but no problems had arisen, no fights had been instigated, Grindlewald had made no obvious moves, and, happily, no Death Eater raids had occurred. Even the Marauders had been strangely quiet, though Albus did not expect their tranquility to last for long.

A low stomach growl punctuated the "Hail the Hippogriffs" song that he was listening to, and he smiled to himself. Time for supper, he supposed.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a soft but firm knock on the door sounded.

"Come in," he called, smiling—it was such fun to have visitors! It was a shame no one visited more often, or came just to chat...

The door opened to reveal Miss Ginny Weasley—Grindlewald's follower, friend, and, rumor has it, girlfriend.

Oh yes, Albus was thrilled to speak to her.

"Miss Weasley," he greeted pleasantly, allowing a carefully measured hint of surprise to seep into his voice, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

She hesitated—that was significant, though Albus pretended not to notice her pause—and drew a shaky breath, as if she has no idea what she has gotten herself into, and only knows it is way over her head.

Then she met his gaze with a anticipatory, grinning spark in her eyes and asked, "Do you want to see my socks?"

_**AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa**_

When it boiled down to specifics, Albus never was one to lie to himself, so he didn't bother to pretend that Miss Weasley had _truly_ ventured to his office just to chat. No, she could only be a distraction meant, no doubt, to keep him occupied and out of the way while Gellert and company did as they pleased....

But obvious enough that Dumbledore was meant to know immediately that she was there to misdirect him.

A light, gentle brush of legilimency informed him of their prank and its general plan—he tried not to pry, largely because he did not want to spoil the show for himself when he watched the occurrence in his Penseive later in the evening—and, as the Marauders had been entirely too quiet recently, he was inclined to believe that it was, in all probability, just a prank.

Just to be safe, however, he subtly prodded one of his many silver knickknacks into life to verify that among the crowds of the Great Hall, there was a Harry James Potter, a Hermione Jane Granger, and a Ronald Bilius Weasley, and commissioned all but a couple of the portraits in his office to patrol the school and spread the word to stay alert.

Of course, the fact that the Elder Wand had disappeared, replaced with a spare bit of parchment that promised its speedy return and was signed by the Marauders helped to reassure him.

So he and Miss Weasley had a perfectly lovely conversation, and her socks were simply delightful—the left one depicted some of Fillibuster's fireworks and their magnificent explosions, while the right one doubled as a wireless radio. Among many other things, they discussed the perpetually bothersome question of where all the missing socks go, house elf rights, the difficulty of learning Mermish, and why the Great Hall offers pumpkin juice on a daily basis but never orange juice.

Long before he and Miss Weasley had exhausted their list of things to talk about, the portrait of the short, balding Headmaster Ferendum strolled breezily into the room, gave Albus a discrete salute, crossed into his own picture, and promptly fell asleep in his chair. About half of the other former headmasters followed close behind, similarly settling into their own armchairs.

Dumbledore rose to his feet and said, "Well, Miss Weasley, as delightful as this chat has been, I am quite famished. Won't you accompany me to dinner?"

"_No!"_ She burst out, then blushed, "That is to say, not yet, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell me all about, um, your work in Alchemy. With Nicholas Flemel. I mean, I thought Alchemy was all about the Philosopher's Stone, but of course, he'd made that centuries before you started working with him."

She stared at him, wide eyed and holding her breath as she waited for an answer, but Albus was hungry.

"No, no, I'll tell you all about it on the way, but we really ought to be going to dinner."

So he told her about Alchemy all the way down to the Great Hall and answered her questions. Taking pity on her, he paused as casually as possible outside the Great Hall doors until a portrait signaled that the prank was over, upon which he pushed open the doors and said, "Minerva, have you seen my wand—Oh! Dear me, I seem to have missed quite a show. I'd so like to have seen it, too..."

He took in the gasps, shocked looks, and even applause, absorbed the site of two figures—both of whom looked exactly like him—as they collapsed in fresh, joyful bouts of laughter, and smiled lightly Minerva McGonogal's flustered expression.

Then he shrugged as nonchalantly as he dared and took his seat at the head table.

He helped himself to large servings of just about everything, even as all the professors babbled around him about the prank: the impertinence, the genius, the skill, the hilarity.

"I've never seen such remarkable things done with a wand." Zoe Clarence, the astronomy professor, took off her ruby-colored glasses and polished them idly before settling them back on her nose. She shook her head as if musing to herself. "I can't even define whether it was Transfiguration, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, or some obscure branch of study that I've never heard of before."

Janelle Mandlebrook nodded her head with youthful vigor that Albus could only envy. "If only you'd seen it, headmaster, even you would have been impressed, I'm sure."

Albus raised his goblet, as if in a toast, before saying, "It sounds as if it were an enjoyable and enlightening performance, certainly. Good enough to view in a penseive later this evening, at any rate, if any of you are willing to share your memories of the event."

Janelle Mandlebrook agreed at once; Minerva McGonagall nodded primly, as if to make amends for the flush of adrenaline that still flooded her cheeks after all the drama; Rubeus Hargid offered his own memories generously and loudly from down the table.

Albus thanked them, then tried in vain to steer the conversation away from the prank, so that he could enjoy it properly in the penseive.

"One of the young ladies—Miss Ginny Weasley—showed me the most enchanting socks this evening..."

"Headmaster, please, this is important!" Minerva McGonagall leveled him with a stern look. "Harry Potter and Ronald Weas—"

Would it be so _terribly _impolite to submerge one's head in the pudding? Would it block out the words?

It probably wouldn't be permissible, but Albus sure wished he could.

_AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa_

Nearly half an hour later, Albus made his graceful excuses and requested that Minerva McGonagall join him in his office. He took one last look at the crowd. The students' eyes trailed after him, no doubt gaging his expression for any sign of what would happen next: _Would the pranksters be punished? _they seemed to wonder, _Or would the headmaster find the prank as wonderful and amusing as the students did?_

Amidst all the students, his eyes met those of Grindlewald's. A small smile—not quite a smirk, but not innocent, either—was playing on the former dark lord's lips, making him look far younger and more mischievous than Albus thought natural, given that his current age was well over one hundred.

Peering closer, Albus might have even guessed that the smile was an offering of friendship, a peace token, and a secret message; but then he remembered who he was dealing with and reminded himself not to let his emotions cloud his judgment.

Albus tore his eyes away and left the Great Hall.

They walked in silence to his office, and although Minerva McGonagall's stiff shoulders and tight lips told him that there was something she wanted to say, she held her peace until they were inside his office and away from the danger of prying ears.

"Headmaster," she said the moment the door was closed behind them, "These children are powerful, extremely powerful, and I confess that I am not convinced the other students are safe with them around. I—" She faltered when Albus peered at her over his glasses, though he had not meant to appear anything less than curious. He supposed that his impatience was seeping through into his expression, so he smiled encouragingly and strolled over to sit at his desk before speaking.

"Have you noticed any worrying behavior?"

She hesitated, but shook her head. "Other than a few odd comments in class and a few rumors floating around, their behavior is no more worrying than that of any other student. All the same, their knowledge and sheer power—Well, I suppose you'd best see it for yourself."

Albus simply nodded and said, "Perhaps that would be best," though in reality he was struggling not to celebrate. As quickly as he thought was reasonable, he crossed the room and flicked his wrist in the general direction of his cabinet.

Minerva McGonagall added her memories of the event to his Penseive; he dismissed her and let himself fall into the swirling mist.

_AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa_

Albus watched idly, patiently, as an all-too-familiar scene played out before him. Students were, as per usual, casting several protection charms to shield them from any unwanted spells—for the past six years, all of the students had quickly learned that the Marauders' needed shielding against. However, most students cast the spells half-heartedly, as it seemed that they were quite partial to the idea of an entertaining prank, whether they were the victim or not.

Before long, his doppleganger at the head table carefully, measuredly, laid down his fork and rose to his feet, his eyes trained on the great oak doors.

"It would seem," he said, his voice was plenty loud, but nonetheless mild and gentle, and it rose above the other voices in the hall, "that we have a visitor."

Albus smiled lightly to himself—that was the impostor's first mistake, though it was clear that none of the spectators had picked up on it. If there was indeed an unannounced visitor, than what good would it do to stare at the doors and raise awareness? Very, very few occasions called for an unannounced social visit, and in almost every other circumstance it would be far more prudent to meet out in the entrance hall. The visitor could be a ministry official coming with information meant only for Albus's ears, an Order member, or anyone else with pressing news that he ought to have heard alone. To be seen by the students could cause a panic, compromise their cover, or even put the children in danger. Or the visitor could have been a Death Eater, Voldemort, or any other threat, in which case it was best to go out to meet them rather than put the students in harm's way.

But instead, the fraud just stood there and waited.

The doors blew open as soon as the fake Dumbledore had finished speaking, and there were gasps and shrieks and dropped jaws as a second Dumbledore, this one adorned in greenish blue robes, entered—but his glasses were wrong, perched too far down on his broken nose.

"And you would be right," the newcomer said, and immediately heads swiveled from one to another.

"You are, I presume, here for a prank?" the original impostor asked, his eyes twinkling happily, much like Albus's own often did. The rendition was uncanny.

"A prank, you say?" the Dumbledore with funny glasses repeated as he glanced around the room. "Yes, I'd thought you were such, though I do thank you for confirming it."

"Can I safely assume it was the doing of the Marauders?"

The Dumbledore at the door nodded slowly, watching him curiously over his ill-positioned half-moon spectacles. "They do look rather conspicuously celebratory over there, don't they?"

The Marauders' celebration was rather hard to miss, to tell the truth, standing on tables and bowing as they were. It was clever, Albus mused, the way that they immediately reassured the crowd that this was a prank and not a threat—indeed, as soon as it was clear there was no danger, several of the teachers appeared to be as caught up in it as the students.

One teacher, however, was decidedly not amused.

"Enough of this! Which one of you is the real headmaster?"

Albus had to admire Minerva McGonagall's brisk, no-nonsense tone, so famed by the students, even as he chortled—did she honestly expect them to give in so easily?

"Why, my dear Minerva," the first Dumbledore, the one in the purple robes, said, sounding surprised as he voiced Albus's own thoughts, "I think the prank is you must figure out which of us is the real one, because naturally we would both reply that we are."

Minerva McGonagall's was glare was, most certainly, impressive. "Very well," she said, "That is easily fixed. Hand me your wands."

Clever, very clever, on Minerva McGonagall's part, to immediately check the wand—as no other wand could compare to the Elder, the Deathstick, which, although she did not know the true nature of his wand, was certainly unique enough to be identifiable.

But, of course, the pranksters were one step ahead of her, and Albus watched in amusement as she examined both of their wands and found, much to her fury, that both were exact copies of one another. Peering over her shoulder, he, too, examined the wands and was impressed with the likeness.

All the same, he could not help but wonder if it was significant that one of them looked to have been polished quite recently, whereas the other seemed to have come in contact with a fair amount of dirt, grime, and fingers since its last cleaning.

"But that's not possible!" She exclaimed.

"And yet, it apparently is," funny-glasses Dumbledore smiled genially, turning to his clone. "You visited Gregorovitch, I take it?"

From that one word—one name—a wave of frustration, of fury, and of utter helplessness flew over Albus, and, unable to stop himself—to control himself, to regulate the rush of emotion—he lashed out, childishly intending to slam his hand on the surface of the nearest table. But it was a memory, so of course nothing happened, and the motion was wasted, the anger unabated.

Grindlewald knew.... Grindlewald knew that Albus was aware of his identity, knew and was still confident that he held all the cards.

And in truth, he did. There was nothing Albus could do, no way to confront him, no basis for expelling him, no legal grounds for any action, preventative or otherwise. And there was so much that Albus did not know—what his plans were, the status of his followers, how he had escaped—that Gellert Grindlewald did, indeed, have quite the advantage.

But the scene moved on, unaffected by the torrent of his thoughts or by the ferocity of the revelation.

"You needn't share your secrets, although I do confess I was curious," the pretender in purple robes confided.

By now, the crowd had grown accustomed to the prank and had began enjoying the spectacle, grinning and betting and laughing, but Albus paid them no attention. No, he focused on one, single face among the sea of faces: that of Miss Hermione Granger.

She was the only one of Grindlewald's followers there, as both Gellert and Mr. Ronald Weasley were disguised, and Miss Ginny Weasley was talking with him, Albus, in his office... With all the attention on the two Dumbledores, this was a moment when her face may be unguarded.

Her expression was twisted in a strange combination of emotions—she was primarily happy and amused, but also sad and proud and longing, all at once. Was she proud and happy at how well the prank was playing out, but longing to have been included in the performance? Or was she happy in the moment, and proud of her two friends for doing so well, but wishing that they had more opportunities for moments like this? Missing her family and wishing she were with them, but happy and proud of herself for keeping them out of Grindlewald's grasp? What was she thinking?

Minerva McGonagall spoke angrily, tightly, and proudly, her voice forcing Albus out of his musings "Then I suppose that this will have to be done differently."

The two clones had barely enough time to glance at one another, amused, before they were attacked by her rapid-fire interrogation.

"What subject did you teach, before you became headmaster?" Minerva McGonagall demanded of the Dumbledore who was wearing his glasses wrong.

"The same magnificent art as you do."

Not a terribly difficult question to answer, certainly, as Albus had still been teaching when Grindewald was at large, and there were certainly records that were easy to reach, but worth noting all the same. At this point, Albus needed every clue he could get, even if Gellert was carefully regulating the information he could receive.

Minerva McGonagall turned to the other copy of the headmaster. "Where did you grow up?"

"My younger years were spent in an adorable little village called Mold on the Would, but once I turned ten or so we moved to the charming Godric's Hollow."

Again, it was a simple question with an easy answer, but the fact that both impostors, Grindlewald and Mr. Ronald Weasley, knew the answers so quickly and easily was important. It implied, certainly, that Mr. Ronald Weasley was also older than his apparent years, or else that Grindelwald had confided much in him.

The questions resumed, again addressing the impostor whose glasses were not quite right. "What does your brother do for a living?"

"Why, he runs the Hog's Head—quite a place, I tell you," the fake said, smiling reminiscently in such a benign, natural way that, if he had not known better, Albus himself may have been fooled—that is, if his glasses were right. "You get all sorts there."

This was common knowledge, of course, but the speedy, unhesitating response only confirmed Albus's earlier suspicions.

"What is your favorite candy?"

"I do love chocolate frogs tremendously—it's such fun to see myself on the cards—but I've taken quite a fancy to those Lemon Drops," he paused, reflecting, then offered charmingly, "I have some up in my office, if you'd like to try them."

"Your favorite jam?"

"Raspberry," he said promptly, smiling happily, "without contest. I think I see some over there; do you mind passing it to me? I confess I missed lunch, and having only just made it to dinner am rather famished."

Albus briefly closed his eyes and breathed deeply. This was new and shocking—back when he had been seventeen, he had hated jam altogether, and Albus now remembered quite clearly the occasion on which he had complained, more in jest than anything else, to Gellert that his mother simply could not bring herself to serve a breakfast that didn't include jam.

And here Grindlewald knew, not only that he now liked jam, but also the specific flavor.

Albus opened his eyes, not wanting to miss even the slightest clue, and consoled himself with the knowledge that his old friend, old foe had plenty of opportunities to observe him at meals, and if he had been paying attention, it would have been all too easy to realize that the headmaster was quite partial to raspberry jam.

Minerva McGonagall continued, again addressing the Dumbledore in purple robes, "Your favorite music?"

"Ah, chamber music. I've always said it is a magic beyond all we do here."

But of course, his chocolate frog card had mentioned thus, so surely, _surely _there is not yet cause for panic.

Minerva McGonagall frowned, her frustration clearly mounting to a distinctly impressive degree, and questioned of the Dumbledore with funny glasses, "Who was your predecessor?"

"A delightful man by the name of Armando Dippet. Brilliant man, I say, if a bit naive at times, he more than made up for it with his personality."

Precisely something Albus _would _say, masterfully crafting an answer that spoke both highly and truthfully of Armando Dippet, without betraying the frustration and disappointment that Albus had often felt under his reign as headmaster. Ingeniously, cleverly, subtly added, spoken in Albus's own tone and diction...

But there was something there, a piece of the puzzle that did not quite fit, that caught Albus's attention for a moment, though he could not decide what it was, so he seized the sense of doubt, considered it, and filed it away for further contemplation.

For now, he could not miss a single clue.

"What gift did I give you for Christmas?"

"Ah, it was a grand, thick book," he said tranquilly and composedly, as if he was entirely unaware of the horror that his calm tone and sparkling eyes and infuriatingly vast knowledge of such private matters caused the true Albus Dumbledore, "though I could have sworn I specifically said I'd prefer a pair of thick woolen socks."

For this, there was neither an interpretation, nor an easy explanation. How could Gellert have known? Why would he have bothered? What did it mean that he did know?

And, above all, why was he telling Albus that he knew?

Minerva McGonnogal again addressed the Dumbledore with funny glasses, her eyes narrowed and lips pursed, and sternly demanded, "What did I say when you asked for advise in choosing a Divination professor?"

"You seemed to think it was a rather woolly subject, if I'm not very much mistaken."

"What is your philosophy about death?"

"Why, I'm flattered to know you remember an old man's mumblings! I said that to the well-organized mind, it is but the next great adventure—to consider that a philosophy might be a bit much, but it is a thought just the same."

The situation only grew worse and worse, as Gellert revealed more and more of what both he and his follower knew, and Albus could not help but wonder where the line stopped and which of his secrets—if any—were safe.

Even as Albus's worry grew, so too did Minerva McGonagall's frustration and anger.

"Minerva," one of the fakes soothed, smiling lightly and obviously enjoying himself—the thought twisted Albus's innards painfully—"You really shouldn't get so worked up! It's clear that the impostor, whichever of us he might be, put a good deal of work into this prank."

"Come now, Minerva," the purple cloaked one said kindly, "It's a pleasant evening and this prank is virtually harmless. Why don't you just relax and enjoy it?"

His voice was kind and cajoling, a gentle mocking too subtle for anyone who did not already know to pick up on it, but Albus had fallen to that tone, that manipulation long ago.

"_Come on, Albus," Gellert said, grinning back at him, "Just relax, we're only having fun. Besides, it's for the greater good, remember? We'll have to get our hands a little dirty to if we want power, and without power how can we help anyone?"_

His voice had been kind and understanding, so that Albus would recognize that he only wanted what was "best"; calm and logical, so that Albus would feel the plans were well-developed and trustworthy; and gently, ever so faintly chiding, so that Albus would feel it was him that wasn't thinking clearly, him that was muddling things up.

Grindlewald had not forgotten that tried-and-proven tactic, and was even employing it in this performance that he _knew _would get back to Albus...

It was a threat, Albus realized with a sickening jolt, a threat that Grindlewald had control and power and support, and that it was all building every day. And what could Albus do to change any of it? Grindlewald would not have done all of this unless he knew that Albus had no options... He never had been one to bluff, and if there was even the slightest chance that Albus could pull one over on him, than Gellert would _never_ have done this.

Somehow, the fact that Minerva McGonagall was not convinced by Grindlewald's tactics lifted his heart, just a little, and he watched with something akin to relief as she glared at the two impostors. She said, "Very well, I will refrain from interrogating you, but I still think—"

Professor Flitwick, rising to his feet and smiling broadly, interrupted her with a suggestion of his own. "Might I recommend," he squeaked good-naturedly, "that we have our two resident Dumbledores duel? I daresay that we professors know our headmaster well enough to recognize his style, and it might—ahem—discourage our pranksters from trying this stunt again?"

Ah, so they were now nearing the duel that had the other professors so impressed...

"A charming idea," said the Dumbledore whose glasses did not fit quite right, his eyes sparkling with benign delight and gentle mischief, his beard twitching just so in a kind, excited smile, "And I certainly hope you are up for the challenge."

"The day Albus Dumbledore isn't ready for a challenge is..." The other Dumbledore hesitated briefly, reflecting as he cocked his head to one side and continued in a manner that was at once collected and kind and ever so slightly embarrassed, "Well, I suppose it's likely to happen quite soon—old age and all that."

Despite it all, Albus felt his lips turn up at that, and wished that he could enjoy the prank simply for the performance it was, rather than comb through it relentlessly for hidden meanings and clues that just might decide the fate of the world.

And really, was that so much to ask?

Presently, both of the Dumbledores bowed deeply to one another—the one in purple robes wavered, just a little, at the deepest point of the bow, but no one seemed to have noticed—then straightened and raised their wands. For a brief moment, they stared at one another, each analyzing his opponent, and Albus felt the faintest urge to laugh. Neither one was balanced the way Albus would have been, the one in purple robes was standing at the wrong angle (it inhibited his range of motion, which would prevent him from utilizing more complex spells and wand movements), the one who wore the glasses improperly clenched his wand too tight, and both had hesitated a fraction of a second longer than was wise.

But Gellert Grindlewald had always valued having impeccable form—which begged the question: What if all of this _was_ a bluff? What if this demonstration of less-than-perfection meant that Gellert was neither as strong nor as prepared as he ought to be? Or what if he only wanted Albus to assume as much?

Nearly a full second had passed after the two had straightened up, but before the duel properly began.

It truly was a spectacular duel, with fire and birds and pillows and chasms to keep both competitors—as well as all of their spectators—on their toes. Both Dumbledores performed brilliantly (and what a performance!), casting spells that were dramatic but effective and somehow predicting one another's moves before they were cast.

All the same, Albus watched it play out more or less stoically until there was a bit of magic that even he did not recognize: animating the suits or armor. Oh he knew how he would do it—he would tap into the wards and weave a runic incantation into them, or cast a blanket compulsion charm keyed to the metal, or conduct a simple animation spell through the stone floor. There was, of course, more than one way to skin a kneazle—though why anyone would want to do anything half so barbaric was beyond him—and, similarly, more than one way to stimulate the suits of armor. He and Minerva McGonagall had once discussed many of them, in fact. However, each of them required, at the very least, a three-part wand movement or a verbal command, rather than the single flick that Albus had seen.

The duel went on until its rather abrupt ending—one of the Dumbledores was caught by a _Wingardium Leviosa _and its subsequent stunner.

An awed silence hung heavily in the air for a few seconds, before it was broken as students and teachers alike—and ghosts, too, once he thought to check—cheered and applauded enthusiastically. Albus's attention, however, was trained once again on Miss Hermione Granger, who was biting her lip but looked to be full to bursting with pride as she looked on.

She was proud, then, of her friends and their performance, so she either didn't know about Grindlewald's true identity, didn't care, or fully supported him. At least she was not being held against her will—through blackmail or what-have-you—Albus consoled himself.

The scene went on, as Filius Flitwik took advantage of a lull in the noise to exclaim, "That was quite the show! I certainly hope our upper-level students were able to glean something from that—very nicely done!"

Minerva McGonagall, however, was not feeling as charitable as Filius Flitwick and interrupted the charming, kind-hearted fellow. "But it doesn't answer the question! However good a dueler you both are, I don't think any of us could distinguish much between your styles, let alone match which one was closer to the real Dumbledore's."

The purple-roped Dumbledore smiled indulgently and straightened his spectacles, but shook his head. "Alas, I can't help you, I'm afraid. And in any event, what good would my word be? Whatever I said, you'd still believe it was nothing more than a ploy."

Minerva McGonagall warred with herself for a long moment before she conceded and gifted them with a small smile. "I expect the Polyjuice will wear off shortly, in any event. You have succeeded, and I think your prank is—creditable—of a few house points, as soon as we know who you are."

Minerva McGonagall, however, was not done with her interrogation; indeed, as they all sat down and resumed eating, she leveled both Dumbledores with a stern look and said, "I didn't want to bring this up in front of the entire school, but I'd really like to figure out which of you is the impostor. Consider it Gryffindor pride. Now, one of you, whoever is the real Dumbledore, came to me the night he defeated Grindelwald and was extremely upset about something. Which of you can tell me what that is?"

The clones—_both of them—_paled and exchanged glances_,_ and Albus, again seized with reckless fury, lashed out. His arm went through the table once again, so he kicked at the table leg with his foot—nothing happened—and he stomped the ground in uncontrollable fury. His foot fell right through the solid marble floor, and then he was falling, falling, falling, until he landed in a crumpled heap on his office floor.

He did not move, but instead lay there, with his head buried in the crook of his arm and his left leg bent at an uncomfortable angle.

Logically, he knew that it was foolish to feel betrayed and angered that Grindelwald's followers—or at least the one follower—knew his darkest secret, so he refused to feel either emotion. Of course Grindelwald would have told them.

No, what startled—no, shocked—no, _terrified_ Albus was the pain and bewilderment and hopelessness that had scrawled itself across both of the Dumbledores faces. Albus could understand seeing it in Gellert's face—maybe even rejoiced to see it there—but it was foreign and strange on his follower's.

After a long, torturous moment, he picked himself up, collected his thoughts, and reentered the Penseive. The scene picked up as if he had never left

"It's alright, you don't need to answer." One of the Dumbledores was speaking, his lips twisted in a smile that looked more like a grimace. Minerva McGonagall's eyes widened and her grip tightened on her goblet. "Good question, professor, and it was the right one to ask." Albus hardly realized when Minerva McGonagall jumped to be addressed as _professor_; he was preoccupied with the way his clone's eyes had grown troubled. "Harry Potter, at your service."

His heart pounding viciously in his chest, Albus ignored the reactions of his colleagues—it was enough to know they were shocked—and watched instead the interaction between the two Dumbledores. The pain in each of their eyes had deadened a little, overwhelmed by some other, lighter emotion. Pride? Satisfaction? Affection?

Whatever it was, it was gone half a second later, because when they made eye contact, amusement (probably at the extreme reactions of their audience) won out and they promptly began howling with laughter. They laughed and laughed with such vigor and youth that Albus suddenly felt old, extremely old, despite the fact—or perhaps because or it—that one or both of them had lived as many years as he had.

"Blimey, Harry," one of the Dumbledores said, choking out the words between his guffaws, "That was... bloody awesome!... I could hardly... keep from laughing!"

"So neither of you are Dumbledore?" Professor Marcus Kettleburn demanded, and they both shook their heads.

The Dumbledore with the funny glasses managed to gasp, "Ron Weasley."

That was, of course, the moment that the true Albus had entered the hall the original time, with Miss Ginny Weasley trailing behind him.

"Minerva, have you seen my wand—Oh! Dear me, I seem to have missed quite a show. I'd so like to have seen it, too..."


End file.
